by Vince Milam
I held a spark of gratitude toward the Company. They took care of their problem. And mine. Kept my hands semi-clean. So they took care of business with one of their own. Used Case Lee for misdirection. As a tool. Oh man.
I side-hilled the ravines and worked toward the boat. No interference, no sign of Stinnett’s now unemployed posse. My personal pirate sat among the gas containers, smoking.
“Where’s your friend?” he asked.
“Gone.”
He ruminated on this development—not out of concern, but gratitude. He wouldn’t fork over a slice of the pie to Paco, the arranger. All good by him. I pushed the boat off the beach and jumped in. Kept the rifle across my lap and faced the smuggler. He flicked his smoke into the still waters.
“There was a great deal of shooting.”
I didn’t respond.
“You must be a tough hombre, no?”
“Tough enough.”
He laughed, spit into the sea, and started the engines.
“You have the look. I have seen it often and still do not understand,” he said, speaking over the idling engines.
“What look?”
“Sadness. Doubt. Why is this? You are alive. Others are dead. These are the only two choices in life.”
“Sometimes it’s not a choice.”
He spat again. “It’s always a choice.”
He turned the vessel toward San Andres and firewalled the throttle, ending all conversation. We arrived an hour later. I paid up and took Paco’s vehicle. Stripped off the vest and stuffed the rifle into the leather bag. Returned the way we came, around the southern tip of San Andres. No other vehicles on the road. Two customers remained at the bar shack where I’d spend the night again. A single naked lightbulb cast a yellow hue across the sand floor. My rucksack—unmolested.
The proprietor and two customers spoke of local things, life. Relationships with wives and family and friends. Where the best fishing could be found at this time. The ongoing repair of the village’s water tank. Not once did they enquire of my activities. I asked for his finest rum from a selection of a half-dozen bottles. He held a bottle of Guatemalan rum, two-thirds empty. I asked for the entire bottle. No glass.
“It is expensive,” he said. “The others are also fine and cost less.”
“How much?”
He stated an amount equivalent to ten bucks. I folded a Benjamin in my pocket and palmed it. Passed it via handshake across the driftwood bar. He received it in the same manner, giving a quick glance at the amount before it slid into his pocket.
“For everything,” I said.
He thanked me. The exchange would constitute a major topic of discussion for weeks among the small bar’s clientele. I excused myself and pulled a chair into the sand and opened the laptop. The rum bottle nestled alongside me. I acquired a satellite signal and considered exit options. Another charter jet couldn’t be arranged until morning, with availability uncertain. I checked commercial flights. Direct shots for Cartagena, Bogota, and Panama City. The first two headed the wrong direction. And the Panamanian flight left the earliest. Panama, Atlanta, Savannah. I could smell the barn.
At daybreak the assault rifle went into the Caribbean, as far as I could throw it. I kept the pistol until security at San Andres airport. Dropped it in a bathroom garbage can. The magazine, loaded with bullets, deposited in another. Both wiped clean prior to disposal.
The Panama layover afforded an opportunity for a great cup of coffee and laptop catch-up. No report filed with Global Resolutions—this mission was personal. But it stamped a hard period on the end of the Caribbean job. Over and done, loose strings tied. No sense of job well done or personal satisfaction. Just over. I sipped coffee and read an email from Marcus. He chastised me about a Montana trip confirmation.
But I couldn’t shake the post-events blues. Case Lee, Inc. had made a concerted and unsuccessful effort to engage contracts of the more mundane variety. I’d failed the sniff test of geopolitical implications associated with grand plans and big money. Perhaps Global Resolutions’ business model didn’t offer plain vanilla contractor gigs. Which left the alternative of finding my own investigative work. A concept dead on arrival. Advertise, market, spread the word—activities leaving me more exposed, more public. No thanks. Developing a better nose and exhibiting greater discernment when considering Global Resolution contracts constituted a more viable path. Stay away from arenas and venues where spooks played. Deal with non-clandestine situations. Unless I chose to enter Spookville. Then do so with eyes wide open.
Choices and decisions were weighed while I sipped black coffee and grappled with a white picket fence existence and life partner floating out of reach. In part due to the bounty. Another opportunity lost with Stinnett, although the wet work operative may have been right. BS on Stinnett’s part. So cue the blues but temper the post-gig malaise with a degree of satisfaction at, once again, having departed the realm of spies and lies and obfuscation. Man, was I wrong.
He slid into the chair opposite me at the coffee shop table. The dude was mid-thirties, Chinese, and dressed like a preppie. No smile but no appearances of hostility either. Benign, perhaps, although the word “spook” might as well have been printed across his forehead.
“You are an interesting man, Mr. Lee.”
No accent. Spoke like he’d graduated from UCLA. Hell, he probably had.
“I’m a simple man. You got a name? Since you know mine.”
“I am Mr. Lee as well.” He smiled. I didn’t.
“You going to fire a poisonous dart across the table? Or can I relax and drink my coffee.”
He continued smiling. “Please relax. And as you claim to be a simple man, allow me to speak in simple terms.”
MSS. The Chinese Ministry of State Security. Their version of the CIA. Wanting a little chat about events of the last week. Less so about Stinnett—they understood the Company would sooner or later figure it out and take care of their guy. A permanent solution. Last night or earlier this morning they tried contacting Stinnett. Perhaps took satellite images of his house when he failed to respond. Noticed a back corner of his house blown away. Put two and two together.
And they understood I was involved. Not the details, perhaps. Details such as me starring as the dumbass providing Company misdirection. No, these people played the long game. Years forward. And wouldn’t dwell or agonize over small items such as their Company guy getting whacked. A loss, sure, but this was about the big picture. Panama. Costa Rica. Trillions of dollars in world trade. The down-the-road perspective.
“Have at it. I like simple.” I sipped coffee and stared across the table over the porcelain cup’s rim.
“We are always looking for exceptional people such as yourself.”
This guy was trying to recruit me. Didn’t see that coming.
“I’m retired.”
“A short stint with us would ease your retirement plans. Lessen the burden of money concerns.”
“No thanks.”
“A few years. No more than five. And it would allow you to continue using your special skills. Most impressive skills.”
“No thanks.”
We entered the danger zone. Money hadn’t worked. If he had any leverage, personal leverage such as family and friends, it would play now.
He cocked his head, the pleasant countenance remained. “I understand. You are tired and such a decision requires considerable thought.” He reached into the pocket of the button-down pressed shirt. Pulled a business card and placed it before me. “Please contact me when you wish to discuss such an opportunity. The remuneration is, truly, quite spectacular, Mr. Lee.”
He stood, shot a quick head bow, and strolled away. I pocketed the business card, worth a chunk of change on the Clubhouse ledger. And let relief flood. He’d stuck with money. No leverage, no threats, no indications he knew all that much about me or my private life. Still. A simple cup of coffee in the Panama City airport and another damn clandestine player plops down. It was
like I splashed on spook attractant each morning after a shower.
On the upside, he—and MSS—clearly held no deep animosity toward me or my actions. Unlike the Russians, who kept me high on their shit list. But MSS could change their mind at any time. A closed door office, several of their operatives sitting around a conference table. After tea was served, the seventh item on the meeting’s agenda broached. Take out Case Lee. It could happen any time.
Yeah, well, I wasn’t operating a popularity contest. The sit-down with MSS cranked the engine, cylinders fired, hackles raised. And blew away the blues. Fine and dandy, Spookville. Bring it on. Screw with me and reap the whirlwind, boys. Just bear in mind there was a long string of alleged badasses who, if they could still talk, would speak with one voice. You’d best not mess with Case Lee.
Epilogue
CC and I strolled among palm trees and massive old moss-draped oaks on Jekyll Island, Georgia. The Ace was tied along Fancy Bluff Creek, Tinker tugged at the end of his leash, and all was well in the world. We were on our way toward the Sea Turtle Center.
“Turtles,” she said. “Turtles and Tinker Juarez and you and me.”
“That’s right, my love.”
It was the sixth day of our adventure. Mom and Peter visited Yellowstone Park and the Tetons. Mom called every day under the guise of a CC check-in. The reality—revealed with Mom’s statements of continued health among Rocky Mountain wilderness—was her assurance they’d so far avoided being the prime entrée for a grizzly bear.
Marcus called and confirmed my date of arrival in Montana. We also confirmed a few other items.
“How’d the mess we spoke of work out?” he asked.
“The Company took care of it.”
A pregnant pause while he digested the statement.
“And just how do you know that?”
“I’m a man of mystery.”
Another pause. “You’re bullheaded. You dived in. And opened the door for more of the same in the future.”
“Things were dealt with. Important things.”
“I swear I’m dealing with a teenager half the time.”
“You putting me to work on the ranch, Dad?”
“You wouldn’t recognize work if it drove over you.”
“I’m a delicate flower, Marcus. Let’s not forget that.”
“About as delicate as a wire-bristle brush. Tell CC hi for me.”
The Sea Turtle Center captivated her. I paid for a behind-the-scenes tour and CC interacted with injured sea turtles in rehab. The technicians allowed her to feed one and touch and rub others. Her response was wide eyes and a mouth open with wonder. She kept shooting quick glances toward me, ensuring this shared moment was stamped real and magical and etched in our common experiences. I returned loving smiles each and every time.
JJ emailed me a link to a short blurb from the Bay Area press. Jordan Pettis was killed in a hit-and-run accident. Dollars to donuts he’d re-initiated the Costa Rica deal. Killed by greed and stupidity and hubris. And by another office closed-door session, perhaps attended by the guy who met me at the Panamanian airport. Above the email link she asked, Coincidence?
Could be. I wasn’t elaborating on the subject, and finished my short reply with, Hope all is well. I couldn’t shake the badge aspect when interacting with her. Maybe time would leaven our trust factor. Maybe not. But her email prompted a Bo catch-up call.
“What’s shaking, castaway?” I asked.
“Caribbean sand, my brother. Gotta shake it out of everything. Sandals, shorts, hair. An irritating constituent of this time and place. One I have yet to sidle up next to and embrace. How’s my Georgia peach?”
“CC and I are on a boat trip. Mom and Peter traipse around Yellowstone as we speak. Avoiding bears.”
“Bears take many forms. We have one in Portland.”
He meant Catch. Blood brother and bear of a man with a bear’s attitude.
“Speaking of bear country,” I said. “Why don’t you join me in a couple of weeks? Montana. We can drive Marcus crazy.”
“I’ll pose the question to JJ. She does have this thing called a job. Me too. An ugly imposition on life schedules.”
“You have a job?”
“I escort bundles of visitors on snorkeling trips.”
Bo with a job. It wasn’t for money. Perhaps a signifier for JJ he wasn’t a ne’er-do-well. A man capable of honest work. Hard to say, but good hearing.
“How’s the job working out?”
“It’s interesting. Folks seem to enjoy my perspectives on sea critters. And life.”
“I’m pretty much a fan as well.”
“You’re a grounded goober. My sea anchor. Although JJ partakes in that role to a lesser degree.”
“And how’s that working out?”
“Better than good.”
He elaborated on his relationship, voice filled with growing satisfaction. Fine and good to hear.
CC and I untied Tinker from outside the sea turtle building. He wasn’t enthused about being left behind.
“Case. Can you believe?”
“The turtles?”
“The turtles. And turtle doctors. Did you know about turtle doctors?”
“I did not.”
“Would Tinker Juarez like turtles?”
It required some thought. “I think maybe dogs and turtles don’t pay much attention to each other.”
“Why?”
“Well, they’re just different. They might like each other, but one lives in the water, one on land.”
She chewed her lower lip. The ocean breeze ruffled her hair and prompted Tinker into a nose held high gait, capturing scent.
“I wonder if turtles like snow cones?” I asked. A summer snow cone shack was situated between us and the Ace of Spades.
“Maybe. Maybe the turtle doctors know.” We strolled several more yards. “But I like snow cones. So does Tinker Juarez.”
Melinda Whitmore called late one evening while CC and Tinker were sleeping below deck. I occupied the foredeck throne with stars and a half-moon and a vodka-rocks my lone companions. I’d forgotten to disengage the Omaha phone exchange, but did remember leaving Melinda a Jack Tilly business card. The chat was light, fun, casual. We touched on a variety of conversational subjects, her low laughter appealing and infectious. And she formed a solid touchpoint outside my shadowed world. The conversation ended with her asking me to call her some time. Keep in touch. Left it on my side of the court. Fair enough and the desire to take her up on it pulled strong.
We turned onto an old brick-lined path. Massive live oaks lined both sides, their branches forming a shaded tunnel. Spanish moss hung as blue-gray stalactites and moved with the breeze. CC and I held hands and took our time. One of those stab-in-the-heart moments, poignant and captured for storage in personal treasure boxes.
“How many snow cone colors?” I asked.
CC liked two or three flavors, colors, on her snow cone.
She took her time. “Three. But Tinker Juarez wants one.”
“Sounds great. I think I’ll get two.”
“Two is good. But dogs like one.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do. Three colors for CC, two for Case, one for Tinker.”
“Tinker Juarez.”
“Of course. Tinker Juarez.”
She squeezed my hand in affirmation, with a love clean and pure and precious.
On the return leg to Charleston, I received a message from Jules.
Status?
A bit of a surprise. Not the arrival of a Clubhouse message, but the intimation she wasn’t aware of recent outcomes. Company wet work was buried too deep for her spider web network. I shot a short reply.
Over and done.
Her return message marked another benchmark on my life’s path, neither welcomed nor shunned.
Huzzah. But remember the big item, dear boy. It is seldom over. And never done.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed the experience, and than
k you for joining me on the trip. The sights, sounds, and textures of exotic places around the world are part and parcel of the Case Lee series. I’ve been fortunate to have lived and worked around the globe—from the Amazon to New Guinea to the Congo. And love incorporating those backdrops into my tales. The next page—About The Author—details some of those adventures.
If you would like to get updates and insights on the next Case Lee book, please join my newsletter list by simply clicking below.
http://eepurl.com/cWP0iz
And I need to ask a favor. If you are so inclined, I’d love a review of The Caribbean Job on Amazon.com. Reviews mean a lot to potential new readers.
Other Case Lee adventures:
The Suriname Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 1
The New Guinea Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 2
Again, thank you so much for dedicating the time to spend with me and Case in The Caribbean Job. Here’s hoping you and yours are doing well. And remember, we’re all in this together.
Sincerely,
Vince Milam
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I’ve lived and worked all over the world, traipsing through places like the Amazon, Congo, and Papua New Guinea. And I make a point of capturing unique sights, sounds, and personalities that are incorporated into each of my novels.
The Suriname Job
I worked a contract in that tiny South American country when revolution broke out. Armored vehicles in the streets, gunfire—the whole nine yards. There’s a standard protocol in many countries when woken by automatic gunfire. Slide out of bed, take a pillow, and nestle on the floor while contemplating whether a coup has taken place or the national soccer team just won a game. In Suriname, it was a coup.
There was work to do, and that meant traveling across Suriname while the fighting took place. Ugly stuff. But the people were great—a strange and unique mixture of Dutch, Asian Indians, Javanese, and Africans. The result of back in the day when the Dutch were a global colonial power.
